Footprints on the Ceiling

by Clayton Rawson

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Quinn opened his notebook.

  Watrous sat on the edge of the bed. “I wrote Miss Skelton some weeks ago asking permission to investigate the haunted house. She replied, asking me to come and see her and requesting that I bring Madame Rappourt, whom she wanted very much to meet. When we came she invited—insisted, almost—that we stay on for a while as her guests. We found that she was greatly interested in psychic matters. She had read several of my books and was particularly interested in Madame Rappourt’s mediumship and in the Psychical Research Laboratories for which I am making plans.”

  “You accepted, then?”

  “Madame Rappourt did—for both of us. I wasn’t too keen on it at first because she put me off on the matter of the haunted house. She hadn’t promised to let me see it in her reply, but I had assumed that the invitation indicated assent. However, since Eva wanted to accept, I stayed on hoping that Miss Skelton would finally give me her permission.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “You had not met Miss Skelton previously?”

  “Neither of us had, though Rappourt discovered that she had met Floyd. She invested some insurance money, against my advice, in the Carribean Salvage Corp. Floyd was one of the other investors.”

  “Treasure-hunting outfit? She lose it?”

  “Yes. They were after some Spanish galleons off Florida somewhere, but the company folded without paying any dividends. I suspect it was a swindle.”

  “Thought she was a clairvoyant.” The Inspector was more than faintly sarcastic. Then, with one of his abrupt changes of subject: “What was everyone on this island doing yesterday from noon on, Colonel? As far as you know?”

  “I can’t help you much there, I’m afraid. I went in to town at eleven in the morning and did not return until six.”

  “You went to ask Merlini to come out and trip up your friend, Rappourt?” Gavigan’s doubt was frank.

  The Colonel turned to Merlini. “He had to know that, I suppose. But is he going to tell Rappourt? If she suspects that I am doubtful of her—I—I may never have a chance to settle it one way or the other. It’s important to me. I—”

  “Murder, Colonel,” Gavigan interposed heavily, “is more important than whether Rappourt’s been shaking the tambourines with her feet. Why did you call Merlini in? I thought you were so damned sure she was genuine? Last time we met you nearly had a fit when I hinted she might be phony.”

  “I did believe her phenomena genuine,” Watrous said slowly. “I still do. There’s no real evidence yet to the contrary.”

  “But you had doubts enough to make you call Merlini?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Those slate messages what worried you, maybe?”

  Watrous hesitated slightly before he replied. “Yes. I don’t know why, but—” He shrugged vaguely.

  “Would it have anything to do with the fact that the subject of the messages concerns—$8,000,000?”

  “Oh,” he said, not as startled as I thought he’d be, “you know about that?”

  “Yes. Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

  “I thought it might come better from Rappourt and Floyd and the others. It’s their secret.”

  “They have no salvage permit but were going to dive for it anyway?”

  Watrous nodded.

  “And you don’t think the wreck is where Rappourt’s spooks say it is?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. Floyd, who’s an authority on such things, seems satisfied, as does Brooke.”

  “I see. He’d know about such things, too, would he? What is it he invents that he won’t talk about?”

  “Submarine salvage apparatus. He’s working on something new, an underwater suction device—a vacuum-cleaner affair which he says can clear away the silt over the wreck and allow divers to get at it.”

  Merlini, browsing among Linda’s books, asked, “That what he works on out on the houseboat all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “He finished it yet?”

  “Oh, no. He’s been completing his final drawings and working on a scale model.”

  Merlini nodded but offered no further questions; and Gavigan resumed, on a new tack. “When you went in to town, Colonel—Henderson take you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you returned at six o’clock with Lamb?”

  “That’s right. Henderson always makes a six o’clock trip, picking up anyone who is in town and getting them back in time for dinner.”

  “You were with Merlini for an hour or so at noon. What’d you do the rest of the time?”

  “I spent the afternoon at the Psychical Research Society Library on 54th Street.”

  “Librarian corroborate that?”

  “Yes. Mr. Porter Welch.”

  “You didn’t see Miss Skelton after you had returned?”

  Watrous shook his head. “I saw her only once all day. She was talking to Lamb in the living-room as I went out at eleven to go to the boathouse. The Do Not Disturb card was on her door when I returned. I noticed it when I went up to my room to dress for dinner. Her absence was mentioned at dinner, but no one thought it unusual, though Rappourt seemed worried for fear Linda wouldn’t appear for the séance.”

  “And after dinner?”

  “Miss Verrill came in shortly after we had left the table, and all of us—except Arnold—sat about talking, until nine o’clock, when I pleaded a headache and excused myself, going to my room.”

  “So you could sneak out your window and meet Merlini?”

  The Colonel drew himself up, some of his formal dignity returning. “No,” he said indignantly. “So that I could let Merlini in when he arrived. I did go out, however, when I saw a light up in the old house. I thought that a bit odd, if as I had been told, the house was always locked.”

  Casually Gavigan asked, “You’ve never been in that house before you went in with Merlini last night?”

  The Colonel adjusted his pince-nez with a nervous hand.

  “No,” he said emphatically. “I have not.”

  Gavigan’s sharp eyes were on the Colonel as he took out a handkerchief and, holding it in his palm, carefully unfolded the corners to expose the gold cigarette lighter.

  The Colonel gazed, fascinated, and his head bobbed slowly in a mechanical nod, his face gray. “I thought that would be what you were coming to,” he said in a small voice. He sat suddenly on the edge of the bed as if his knees were weak.

  He looked up at Merlini. “You took it from my pocket last night, didn’t you?”

  Gavigan said harshly, “You admit you picked it out of that fire last night, then?”

  “Yes. I can’t very well do anything else, can I?”

  “No. But you’d like to. Why?”

  “I—I guess I was excited. I was afraid you’d suspect the owner of the lighter of having set the fire.”

  “I see. How do you know he didn’t?”

  “The lighter”—Watrous moistened his lips—“happens to be mine.” He faltered a bit, took a grip on himself, and then talked rapidly. “I’m afraid I got the wind up. We discover Linda’s body and a moment later I find my lighter there in that fire.…I—well, I think anyone’s natural reaction would be to—to hide it until he’d had time to think it over.”

  “You’ve had all night to think it over,” Gavigan said. “What’s the answer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like to accuse anyone—though I would like to know if my lighter was used merely because it happened to be handy—or because it was my lighter.

  If I thought it was the latter—”

  “Stop stalling. Let’s have it.”

  The Colonel crumbled before the Inspector’s insisting roar. “It disappeared from my room,” he said, “night before last. It was on my dressing table when I was dressing for dinner. I’d taken it out of the suit I’d worn in the afternoon and put it there with my keys and change. When I started to transfer
the articles to my pocket again—the lighter was gone.”

  “It didn’t just vanish. What happened?”

  “I—well, I didn’t actually see him take it—but—”

  “Who? Get on with it!”

  Watrous said somewhat doubtfully:

  “Floyd Skelton stopped in and talked to me while I was dressing.”

  “You’ll swear it was there before he came in and that it was gone afterward?”

  “Yes. I think so—yes.”

  “Well,” Gavigan flared angrily, “make up your mind.”

  Watrous coughed nervously; then more deliberately, said, “He took it. He must have. But I couldn’t swear to that in court. I didn’t actually see him take it.”

  Gavigan threw an inquisitive glance toward Merlini, which got no response.

  “All right, Colonel. You can go.”

  Watrous got up quickly. “Thank you.” At the doorway, he turned. “And I would appreciate it if you’d not find it necessary to tell Madame Rappourt of my suspicions. It will—”

  Gavigan was obviously not listening. Watrous stopped, frowned, and went out.

  The Inspector scowled at Merlini. “Well, what do you think of that?”

  “It’s like a lot of things that go on around here,” Merlini answered. “It makes me anxious to meet brother Floyd.”

  “You’ll get the chance, or I’ll know why not,” Gavigan growled. “Malloy, get Arnold in here.”

  His eye rested on the body. “No, not here. One of the other rooms.”

  “Floyd’s,” Merlini suggested. “Across the hall.”

  The Inspector nodded and started in that direction. “I don’t know how many blasted mystery men were running about on this island last night,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’ll bet Floyd was one of them.” He stopped short just within the room as he saw the wall decorations, grunted a bit incredulously, and then, as we followed him in, began duplicating Merlini’s snooping actions of the night before. He was looking in the wardrobe at what the well-dressed man should wear when Grimm, to whom Malloy had relayed the order, brought Arnold in.

  Arnold’s face still had that pale look and now seemed drawn and nervous. He carried an unlighted pipe in his hands; and his fingers fussed with it absently, tamping the tobacco down in the bowl. He was wearing brown checked slacks and a brown pullover sweater.

  Gavigan indicated a chair.

  Arnold shook his head.

  Gavigan asked, “You saw your sister last at lunch time yesterday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where were you all afternoon?”

  “In the basement. I have a workshop down there. I went there directly after lunch and didn’t come up until just before dinner. I met Watrous and Lamb as they came in from the boathouse, arriving from town.”

  “That sign hung on your sister’s door then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after dinner?”

  “Basement again. Until just before the séance began. I came up for that. Rather got the impression Rappourt didn’t want me in on it. So I made it a point to sit in.”

  “Time?”

  “Shortly before 9:30. Sigrid, Rappourt, and Lamb were there. I didn’t see the Colonel. Sigrid told me then that you”—he looked at Merlini—“were coming and that Watrous was going to sneak you in. I thought the fireworks should be interesting. Ira arrived at quarter to ten; and then, though Rappourt seemed considerably upset because there was no sign of Linda—I rather got the impression the hocus-pocus was largely for her benefit—she decided to start anyway.”

  “Hocus-pocus? Rappourt’s a fraud?”

  Arnold raised an eyebrow.

  “Naturally.”

  “Prove it?”

  “That’s the rub. All I know is that the dead don’t come back. It’s a contradiction in terms. Anyone who says they do is either a liar or a damn fool. And Rappourt’s no fool. She’s too clever by half. I don’t understand those conjuring tricks of hers, but they’re not supernatural—there ain’t no sech animal.”

  “Your sister thought so.”

  “Yes.” He smiled cynically. “Lamb, Brooke, and Watrous go for it, too. In the damned-fool category, I should say. And Floyd also, for that matter. Somehow I never expected him to go psychic on us. Sigrid and myself seem to be the only sane ones in the booby hatch. Linda’s had a loose rocker on that subject all along.”

  “She was your half sister and Floyd’s?” Gavigan asked.

  “Yes. Daniel Skelton—that’s father—married again after Mother died. Sister of Sigrid’s father. Daniel was an opinionated old so-and-so. Family trait. Floyd and I didn’t get along with him too well—pigheaded ourselves, I guess. He felt sorry for little Linda with her mental quirks, so much so that he left her the whole damned Skelton fortune—except for a few thousand apiece to Floyd and myself. Pin money. You’d think a couple of million would do for three, but the old man said that we were boys, and could look out for ourselves. Linda was a girl, and ill, and couldn’t. I’ve always suspected one of her mediums of talking him into that. He was a pushover for spooks, too.”

  “Not Rappourt, eh?”

  “No. That was just before he died, in ’21 during that table-tipping—ouija craze. But I think Rappourt’s up to something similar.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That Rappourt’s been trying to get Linda to change her will so that a nice big slice is diverted to some spiritualistic cause. In Rappourt’s name probably. Usual racket.”

  “As far as you know, that hasn’t happened?”

  “I haven’t seen Linda’s lawyer out here. And I’ve kept my eyes open.”

  Merlini, who now sat on the bed, idly manipulating a deck of cards, put in, “And what does happen to the inheritance?”

  Arnold’s laugh had no humor in it. “That’s a good one, too. But you can’t say she was murdered for her money. Floyd and I don’t see any of it. Whole thing goes, lock, stock, and barrel to Sigrid. Linda’s practical jokes always were crude.”

  “Sigrid’s not a possibility, then?”

  Arnold frowned at Merlini in a startled way. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “She wouldn’t murder anyone, and you know it. Only person that really got along with Linda, anyway.”

  “Floyd knows about the will provisions, too?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Sigrid?”

  Arnold said emphatically, “No. I’m sure she hadn’t the slightest idea! You see, I don’t think Linda ever really intended to leave the will that way. If she had, she wouldn’t have told us. She was just being nasty. Result of her phobia. She was eaten up with jealousy because Floyd and I could go where we liked and she couldn’t. Gail will tell you that that’s a common agoraphobic symptom. Human nature gets a bit curdled under those conditions. Sorry if I sound a bit rough on her, but she was no fun to live with.”

  “Why did you, then?”

  “She had the money. As long as we hung around and acted like good little ‘Yes men’ she’d dole out some of it.”

  Gavigan said quietly, “Can you suggest other motives?”

  “Other motives?”

  “Yes. You and Floyd didn’t like her much and Sigrid gets the money. Those are motives.”

  “But you’re not serious?” he asked a bit shakily. “I thought it was fairly obvious that whoever killed her couldn’t have known about her phobia. No one that did would have faked a suicide up—up there where you found her.”

  Gavigan didn’t comment on that. He spoke quickly and loudly, trying, I think, to break up the silence that threatened to fall on us, before Arnold should become aware of it.

  “There wouldn’t be a motive in this treasure hunt would there? Eight million dollars is quite a bit to be lying around loose, waiting for the first finder.”

  Arnold smiled. “It’s hardly doing that, Inspector. It’s been there over 150 years and no secret about it. But that’s hardly a motive. Linda was thinking about underwriting the salvage. Wh
y kill the goose that’s about to lay the golden eggs? No, I don’t think so. There must have been someone on this island yesterday who didn’t belong here. You aren’t forgetting the man in the motorboat, are you?”

  “No,” Gavigan said, “I’m not. She was going to put up the cash for Brooke’s apparatus. That it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just how did this Hussar business start?”

  “Floyd,” Arnold said. “His pet theory. He was in the Navy during ’17 and ’18. Submarine service. He did some diving, though not a lot. He was too heavy, or something. But, with his interest in treasure lore, that particular subject has a fascination. Anyway, he knows a good bit about it from actual experience and a lot more from research. He’s been fooling around with an echo-sounding device, and he found a hulk on the river bottom that he thinks is the Hussar.”

  Arnold stepped toward the dresser and pointed up at a Geodetic Survey chart tacked above it on the wall. “His theory is that the Hussar, which sank about here—” Arnold indicated the spot off 134th Street which the doctor had said was correct—“has evaded all recent searching parties because its hulk has shifted. Sounded all right to listen to. I wouldn’t know. He has the tidal currents all checked and mapped out. Notice the odd conformation of Skelton Island and the submarine sinkhole indicated by the depth markings inside the small peninsula on the west shore. Floyd says that sometime in the last 50 years the wreck was swept clean of silt, due to current changes caused by near-by dredging and blasting in the channel. She was then shifted by the natural action of the tidal currents and moved gradually outward, until, on her way toward the Sound, she was scooped up by the arm of the island, and settled into the sinkhole. He says the measurements he’s taken of the hulk with the echo sounder fit those of the Hussar.”

  “I see,” Gavigan said. “The theory is based on something more than spirit messages, then?”

  “Yes. Captain Pole’s information from the astral plane or something is supplemental; and, though Floyd says it all checks, that’s where I get off. Rappourt and Watrous wander out here one day, get invited to stay, and before you can say ‘Fraud,’ she’s suddenly contacted the Hussar’s captain and is fishing spirit messages out of the beyond that give depth readings and nice neat instructions for salvaging. Mere coincidence, of course.”